The Chain
by rakei
Summary: After Clint dies on a mission, Natasha spends a lot of time locked in her apartment trying to cope. Song fic. Rated T for character death.


**A/N: I know I've been promising a multi-chapter fic for about a month now, but I've hit a really serious writer's block and I have barely been about to push out 1,000 words lately. I was just able to get 1,000 out of this one, even with inspiration from a song. So, here's yet another Clintasha one-shot song fic. Listening to the song while reading this will most likely give you the best effect, so go search for it on Youtube (the name and artist are below).**

**Warnings: Character Death**

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_I'll never say that I'll never love,  
Oh, but I don't say a lot of things,  
And you my love are gone_

_So glide away on soapy heels_  
_And promise not to promise anymore_  
_And if you come around again_  
_Then I will take the chain from off the door_

_The Chain -Ingrid Michaelson_

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Natasha Romanoff had never felt immense sadness before. She'd killed hundreds of people—there was no time for sadness or remorse or any intense emotions at all, for that matter. She avoided becoming too attached to people for fear that they would break her emotionless façade and actually cause her to begin to _feel_. Feeling was bad. Feeling caused rash decisions. Feeling was for the inexperienced. Feeling was not something an assassin was trained in.

Maybe that was why Natasha wasn't able to handle the death of her partner, Clint Barton. She had become too attached to him—even maybe loved him. Now, she was on the floor of her small apartment, staring emptily at the wall and just _feeling_. Feeling loss, sadness, depression. She'd never, _ever_ felt so empty, like there was a huge hole in her chest. Natasha had read books about someone losing their lover and how alone they felt, but those were fictional novels. She never thought those feelings were true. Why should she have? She had never had a reason to feel them before. Now, for the past four days after the funeral, she had been crying, breaking things, staring at nothing, and just feeling like she had no control over anything.

The weather outside had matched her mood—angry, black clouds and howling wind that rattled her windows in their frames. Natasha spent a lot of time staring out of her windows, watching the rain fall and listening to the angry whistling of the wind. After a while she would painfully shuffle over to her couch, her bones aching with every step. It was like her depression was taking residence in her muscles, causing her whole body to become tired and stiff. She'd collapse on her sofa and sit there for hours, unmoving. She slept there, cried there. She never went into her room—it felt wrong, empty, just like her. She had tried sleeping in her bed but it felt cold without Clint on the other side. So, she had taken to sleeping on her beat-up couch. Well, not really sleeping—lying awake and staring at the ceiling in the dark.

If she did end up sleeping, it was a restless sleep full of nightmares—nightmares of Clint's death. It was just the same scene, playing over and over again—her fighting viciously with an enemy, her back to Clint as he fought, too. She wasn't guarding his back, like she usually did. When her opponent was finished, she spun around to see a man with a blade sneak up behind the archer. She had just enough time to lurch forward and scream Clint's name before the sword was thrust into the man's back, slicing through his armor, flesh, and muscle. Natasha took out the attacker quickly before kneeling over Clint, her hands hovering over the man, not sure what to do. She tapped the comm. in her ear and frantically begged for help, only to be stopped by Clint's hand shakily reaching up and taking her fingers from the button. He smiled weakly at her and simply shook his head. They both knew it would do no good to ask for help—he was losing too much blood. He'd be gone before he reached a doctor. But the woman could always hope. Natasha clutched the man's hand and stared into his half-closed eyes, willing him to stay alive.

"Don't you dare leave me, Clint Barton," she had hissed. The man let out a breathy laugh and continued to smile.

"Of course not. I promise, Tasha, I'll stay right here with you." Those were the last words the man spoke before his grip on his partner's hand slackened, his eyes fluttered shut, and he was gone. That's when her dream would repeat itself. Fighting, promising, then death. She always woke up in tears, her hand itching with the ghost of Clint's grip, her ears straining to hear his breathy laugh once more. But she knew it wasn't there anymore. She had failed to protect him. He had broken his promise. Now, she wouldn't ever get to protect him again. Clint would never make another promise.

When she'd wake up from one of those dreams, she'd pace around her living room for the rest of the night. She'd think about how she never told Clint she loved him and she would never know if he felt the same way. She'd think about how it felt to have Clint's hand slip out of hers as his life drained from him. It was as if he had just glided away, trickling through her fingers like sand. No matter how hard she gripped his hand or ignored how it was growing slowly colder between her palms, she couldn't keep his life in his body. He was gone, just like that, and there was nothing she could do.

Sometimes, in the wee hours of the morning when she had dug herself into the deepest hole of sadness possible, she would wonder if moving on would ever be a possibility. Now that Clint was gone, she had begun to realize just how much she had loved the man. It was as if ever fiber of her being was programmed to be with him—whether it be as partners at work or as a romantic couple. Either way, being without him was like being without her right arm. Sure, she could learn to do everything with her left, but after going her whole life using her right, it would take a lot of pain and frustration to adapt. She didn't want to say she'd never love again, but she doesn't say a lot of things. Something inside her wanted to move on and get out of this rut—let the true assassin within her come out and brush past it like it was nothing, just another death. But she knew that Clint had attached himself in her heart with iron claws and wasn't about to let loose anytime soon. She would do her fair share of mourning, but she hoped that the pain would dull just enough for her to continue about her duties at SHIELD without there being too much trouble.

Speaking of SHIELD, agents and her teammates, Banner, Rogers, and Stark, had all stopped by numerous times in the past few days—both before and after the funeral. Everyone knew Clint's death would cause Natasha the most pain and they wanted to pay her a visit, but no matter how many times they knocked or called out to her, the woman would not respond. They had tried to just barge in, but the chain lock on her door stayed in place, not allowing them entry. Natasha had only ever removed that chain for Clint when he came over. She would pull the chain away and open the door and greet the man with the smile that only he would ever see. But now Natasha kept the chain in place, knowing full well that Clint would not be coming around again. He was gone. There was no point. Yet, her heart still jumped whenever someone knocked. But then the person would call out to her and her childish hopes of it being her partner banging on the door were crushed once again. She just wanted things to go back to the way things were before.

On this particular day, Natasha was curled on her couch with a cup of coffee that she had managed to brew, staring out at the cloudy sky and trying not to think. It was hard, not thinking, especially when her mind was humming with thoughts and images. But she would simply stop those things from surfacing by gulping down a scorching-hot mouthful of coffee and it would clear her mind for a short time.

After a while, rain began to fall and the drops pitter-pattered on her glass windows. It was a nice, relaxing sound and she could feel her tense muscles relax a bit. She wasn't as ache-y today, nor did the whole in her chest feel as big. The woman assumed that to be a good thing. Maybe, as long as she did not think too hard, she would begin to recover. That was a nice feeling.

About mid-day, when the rain had let up a bit, she heard a loud bang on her door. As usual, her heart leapt a bit. After two or three more knocks, the voice of Steve Rogers reached her ears. She shrunk back into herself at the sound of it and did not move. But, Rogers was persistent. He knocked for twenty minutes and jiggled the door handle. He begged her to come out, saying that cooping herself up in her apartment would not help her in the slightest. Natasha knew this. She knew that staying in her apartment, where things still smelled of Clint and pictures of the two still hung on the walls, would just make things worse. She would not fully begin to recover if she stayed. She knew she had to get out of here. With a shaky breath, the redhead pushed herself up from her couch and slowly approached the door. When she reached the whitewashed wood, she placed one hand on its smooth surface and breathed in deeply. She looked up at the silver chain lock that she never opened for anyone but her partner. She knew she had to open it now. Eyes closed, inhaling again through her nose and blowing the air out slowly through her mouth, she reached up and grasped the cold chain.

Then, she took the chain from off the door.

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**A/N: Reviews are always nice! I'll try and get a multi-chapter fic out soon!**


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